“No, sir, she was never called anything but Anna.”
“And when did she leave Holland?”
“Wait; it was—four years ago last Easter.”
“Has she dark, brown or fair hair?”
“I’ve said already that she looked just like Fraulein Henrica. But what lady might not have fair, brown or dark hair? I think we shall reach the goal sooner, if you will let me ask a question now. Had the lady you mean a large semi-circular scar just under the hair, exactly in the middle of her forehead?”
“Enough,” cried Wilhelm, rising hastily. “She fell on one of her father’s weapons when a child.”
“On the contrary, sir, the handle of Junker Van Hoogstraten’s weapon fell on the forehead of his own daughter. How horrified you look! Oh! I have witnessed worse things in this house. Now it is your turn again: In what city of my home did you meet the signorina?”
“In Rome, alone and under an assumed name. Isabella—a Holland girl! Pray go on with your story, Belotti; I won’t interrupt you again. What had the child done, that her own father—”
“He is the wildest of all the wild Hoogstratens. Perhaps you may have seen men like him in Italy—in this country you might seek long for such a hurricane. You must not think him an evil-disposed man, but a word that goes against the grain, a look askance will rob him of his senses, and things are done which he repents as soon as they are over. The signorina received her scar in the same way. She was a mere child, and of course ought not to have touched fire-arms, nevertheless she did whenever she could, and once a pistol went off and the bullet struck one of the best hunting-dogs. Her father heard the report and, when he saw the animal lying on the ground and the pistol at the little girl’s feet, he seized it and with the sharp-edged handle struck—”
“A child, his own daughter!” exclaimed Wilhelm indignantly.